


Breakin' Things

by MoonQueen17640



Series: The Healing Process [1]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Pre-Surgery, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonQueen17640/pseuds/MoonQueen17640
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buster hears it before he sees it. Tim’s grunt of pain reverberates around his skull and right after he throws the ball to Susac, he’s turning to the mound, his body and Tim’s constantly seeking each other out. He doesn’t even watch the play at the plate, all that matters is Tim. He can see the pain in Tim’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakin' Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witheredsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/gifts).



> Because I'm in the process of recovering from arthroscopic shoulder surgery, I thought it would be perfect for me to take my experiences and try to make sense of what Tim must be experiencing in recovering from his arthroscopic hip surgery. This is the longest single piece I've ever written and it has been such a labor of love. Thank you all for reading! 
> 
> Title from Tim Flannery's "Breakin' Things" written about the 2010 Giants World Championship team. (Go listen to it, it will make you tear up, guaranteed!)

 

June 27, 2015

Colorado Rockies at San Francisco Giants

 Buster hears it before he sees it. Tim’s grunt of pain reverberates around his skull and right after he throws the ball to Susac, he’s turning to the mound, his body and Tim’s constantly seeking each other out. He doesn’t even watch the play at the plate, all that matters is Tim. Tim, who is clutching his forearm as Groeschner trots out onto the field. In Buster’s mind he urges the trainer faster, furious at his sedate pace. He can see the pain in Tim’s eyes.

As the infielders huddle around the mound and Groeschner begins poking and prodding, ignoring Tim’s gasps of pain, Buster turns away. Black and blue marks are already beginning to bubble towards the surface of Tim’s skin and he knows even without a diagnosis that it’s bad. For a moment Tim looks up, searching for Buster’s reassurance, and the wild fear in his eyes makes Buster’s heart ache. It isn’t fair that this is happening on the field in front of 40,000 people who only care about Tim as an athletic asset, it isn’t fair that he can’t wrap Tim up in his arms and feel the way that they fit so perfectly together without encouraging scorn.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Buster can see Petit getting warm in the bullpen, and as Groeschner leads Tim off the field to a roar from the crowd it steels his resolve. He might be completely helpless to fix Tim’s arm, but he can still try to get him the win. No reason to add insult to injury. 

* * *

 The 3-2 pitch just hangs there, and as soon as Buster gets the barrel of the bat on it he knows that it’s going to be a hit. Sliding into second base with a bases clearing double, he manages for a moment to put everything out of his mind: Tim, the pitch that Susac called that he wouldn’t have that maybe could have been avoided if he had been behind the plate, the injury, everything. All that is left is the whisper of the breeze on his cheeks and the sound of the crowd screaming his name. He can be strong for Tim.

* * *

Buster fiddles with the key in his hand, turning it over and running his fingers along the edge as he waits for the elevator to inch its way up the floors of the building. The previous morning Tim had not-so-sneakily placed the key into Buster’s bag as they were getting ready to leave. It had become a weekly dance, determining whose condo to go to (always Tim’s room before his starts), arranging times, arranging arrival and departure, always arranging, always hoping. Though on some level they know that their teammates know, they still try to maintain a guise of professionalism, even though Buster’s condo had been merely a formality for almost two years.

As Buster approaches Tim’s room he doesn’t hear any sound coming from underneath the door, which by itself is worrying. Tim always seemed to have some electric-sounding music blaring until Buster shows up to tease him for his taste or use the music to muffle the sounds of their bodies re-learning each other’s touch after a game has added new scrapes and scars that they have to become acquainted with. All Buster can hear is silence.

The key fights him for the requisite two attempts to try to open the door, and then Buster shoulders his way into Tim’s room, quietly and perhaps foolishly hoping that nothing will be wrong. Tim is lying on the couch, one leg swung over the back and the other draped over the side, an icepack placed on his right forearm and his eyes closed. He looks up as Buster closes the door and drops his bag by the head of the couch. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We get the win?” Tim asks, rolling upright and turning to face Buster.

“Yeah,” Buster says quietly, sitting next to him and wrapping his arms around Tim’s scrawny shoulders as the pitcher leans into his larger frame. “7-5.”

He can feel Tim’s wince when he hears the score, knowing that he’s doing the math and figuring out without Buster saying anything else that he didn’t get the victory.

“Petit?” Tim questions, mumbling into the fabric of Buster’s shirt.

“Kontos,” Buster replies, rubbing his hands up and down Tim’s back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Tim’s grunt of acknowledgment makes him smile ruefully. Despite wanting the victory, he can tell that Tim has compartmentalized his disappointment and mentally gotten to the point where he can be happy with the team moving up a game in the win column despite his own performance.

“How does it feel?” Buster asks, gesturing needlessly at Tim’s arm.

“Like shit,” Tim grumbles, not bothering to mince words. He moves the icepack so that Buster can see and gives a tight smile at the catcher’s sharp intake of breath. Tim’s normally pale skin is mottled with black, blue and shades of yellow, tattooing the pigment with a painful reminder of why he had come out of the game. Buster turns questioning eyes to Tim, knowing that after two years together they can read each other’s faces without words.

“Contusion. Probably DL.” Tim mutters, pulling his arm away from Buster’s grip and angling his body away in frustration, almost trying to hide in plain sight.

Buster shuffles over closer to Tim and grasps his chin with gentle hands, both of them leaning towards each other as a foregone conclusion. The kiss is soft, but as Buster wraps his arms around Tim’s waist, it deepens with tongue and teeth into a desperate scrabbling for reassurance, Tim wanting Buster to say that everything will be okay even though he knows it won’t, and Buster wanting Tim to say that this won’t be a part of something bigger and more frightening even though he knows it will. And so they don’t say anything, letting the wet slide of their lips speak volumes. There are some things, even between the two of them, that still go unspoken.

_* * *_

_July 13, 2013_

_San Francisco Giants at San Diego Padres_

_Tim still smelled like sweat, champagne and victory as Buster followed him into the hotel room, delighting in the stunned and happy smile on Tim’s face that hadn’t left since Buster mobbed him on the mound. He was still buzzing with adrenaline, and couldn’t help looking over at Tim every few seconds, because Buster may have called the pitches, but Tim was the one who made each one so perfect and so finished and so untouchable._

_Tim had told Buster that he just wanted to talk about the game, so when Buster stepped into Tim’s room he expected highlight tapes or scouting reports, but instead what he got was a slightly tipsy Tim a half a step too close to be innocent. He had somehow managed to avoid getting trashed at the bar run after the game where every guy on the team had wanted to buy him a drink in celebration of, “A fucking no-hitter Timmy!” but the way he swayed before Buster’s eyes told him that he hadn’t gone completely without._

_Before Buster could say a word though, Tim was leaning towards him, eyes bright and happy in a way that Buster hadn’t seen nearly enough of that season._

_“You got me here,” Tim told him, only a slight waver to his voice, his hair flopping in front of his face as Buster reached out to push it back before he realized what he was doing. Judging by how Tim’s smile widened it was the right decision._

_“You threw the pitches, Timmy,” Buster replied, waiting to see where Tim would be taking this. If he took a step back he could pass it off as an accident, but instead Tim pressed even closer to him until Buster could smell the beer on his breath and feel his rapid heartbeat through his thin t-shirt._

_“Yeah but you picked the right ones, you know my stuff so well, you know me so well…” Tim’s words seemed to fade as he moved ever closer, and Buster took a shuddering breath before closing the small gap between them, bringing a callused hand up to stroke Tim’s face._

_There was a moment where they simply looked into each other’s eyes, listening to their breaths synchronize and their hearts beat in unison, before Buster summoned the strength to turn away._

_“What are we doing, Tim, what is this? You’re drunk and I can’t…” Tim cut him off by pressing his lips to Buster’s, and any argument Buster had tried to make up vanished upon feeling the almost inevitable sensation of Tim pressing his body against him. Tim pulled back, wrapping his slim fingers around Buster’s biceps and gently tugging him forward while pleading with his eyes._

_“Buster, I need this, I need you. Please.”_

_Buster had never been able to tell Tim no._

_They hadn’t had sex that night, but later, with Tim curled into him and radiating warmth, Buster wrapped his arm tighter around Tim’s waist, pulling him into his chest. Even with no physical space between them it didn’t feel like they were close enough to each other._

_The next morning Buster told Kristen that it was over and muffled his tears in Tim’s stomach, not necessarily missing her, but missing the easy road he knew he would never be able to follow again._

* * *

June 28, 2015

Colorado Rockies at San Francisco Giants

Buster wakes up in the same way he has so many times before, with Tim’s face squished into his shoulder, but this time Tim’s arm is curled up between them, as though their bodies could protect it from further harm. As Buster disentangles himself from Tim’s limbs and gets ready to stand he looks over at his boyfriend. Tim’s hair is a mess around his face despite its shorter length and he seems tense in sleep, like he hasn’t been able to relax since LeMahieu’s line drive.

Buster has always been the early riser between the two of them, years of having to get up early to prepare for college day games engrained in his muscle memory. Tim would sleep for years if no one woke him up and Buster has had his fair share of struggling to get him out of bed on days when he doesn’t start and can’t find a reason to leave the warm comfort of their bed. Today he’ll let Tim sleep for as long as he needs to.

The coffee maker has just started beeping when Tim emerges from the bedroom, bleary-eyed and grumbling, staggering over to the machine and sighing contentedly when the dark liquid hits his throat. Buster smirks, leaning over to wrap his arms around Tim’s waist and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“When do you leave?” Tim asks, turning in Buster’s grip to face him.

“Probably three, we’re doing on-field BP and I need to go over the scouting reports with Bum,” Buster tells him, smiling sadly at Tim’s noise of protest.

“What about you, you gonna laze around all day and watch TV or what?” Buster teases, brushing his fingers lightly over Tim’s arm and pretending to ignore the corresponding wince.

“Nah, Groesch wants me in for another X-Ray and a quick check-up,” Tim says, rolling his eyes as he moves over to the bathroom.

Buster hears the sounds of running water and resigns himself to waiting for Tim to get out of the shower before finishing their conversation. He turns on MLB Network, mainly for laughs, and goes into his crouch on the chair before Tim comes out in billows of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist. Buster immediately jumps up and grabs him for a kiss, unable to resist his clean smell and taste. It has always seemed like their bodies are naturally drawn to each other, unable to resist the pulling forces of gravity and love.

* * *

They enter the ballpark separately, staggering their appearances by at least five minutes even though there is probably no need to pretend. Affeldt gives Buster a knowing smirk before turning to continue ragging on Javi. Out of the corner of his eye, Buster can see Tim going into the trainer’s room, and his chest clenches at the apprehensive look he sees on his face.

Bum pulls Buster aside immediately for a pre-game chat and Buster quickly gets lost in talking about the Rockies lineup and how irritatingly good Nolan Arenado is so that he doesn’t see Tim slink back into the clubhouse and quietly sit down next to Affeldt and Javi, white-faced and shaken.

“You ready big boy?” he asks Bum with a grin, watching a slow, easy smile take over the southpaw’s face.

“Damn right,” Bum replies, laying on the drawl as they move out onto the field to begin BP.  

_* * *_

_July 14, 2013_

_San Francisco Giants at San Diego Padres_

_The first game after they got together, Buster could have sworn that his face would tell the crowd and his teammates what had happened. Tim had always laughingly called him an open book, but Buster was terrified that someone would come up to him and lay into him about fraternization and every other major league rule that he had always pretended to not know existed. He had always been the worrier between them while Tim seemed to take everything in stride._

_“Relax Posey,” Tim teased, popping sunflower seeds into his mouth and grinning at him in the dugout._

_Buster turned wide eyes to him, and instantly Tim understood his worry, hopping down off his perch to sit next to his catcher._

_“See that?” Tim asked, lowering his voice and pointing in the vague direction of the sky._

_“Of course I do, dumbass, it’s the sky,” Buster snorted._

_“Yeah, and you know what? That same sun is going to set tonight and come up tomorrow, and it’s gonna do that every single fucking day from here until the end of time, regardless of whether you look at me funny or not. No one gives a damn, Buster.” Tim told him, popping up again and raising his voice, “Good talk, man,” he announced to the dugout at large before resuming his perch on the bench._

_Buster could have sworn he saw Tim wink as he sat back down._

* * *

June 28, 2015

Colorado Rockies at San Francisco Giants

Buster has always appreciated Bum’s steadiness. Where he has constantly been on edge and anxious, always wanting to be in control, Bum tends to roll with the punches, his fierce competitiveness belying his laid back attitude. If there was ever something to help the fans forget about their beloved Freak going down the day before, it was a home run from their ace.

As Buster watches Bum round the bases, shaking his head in laughter at the look that he aims at the umpire and the opposing pitcher, he is able to lighten up and join the rest of the team in teasing Bum as he trots back into the dugout.

* * *

“That’s how it’s done, man,” Bum tells him later as he grabs a sip of water, eyes shining with laughter as Buster punches him in the side.

“Yeah right, I thought the ump was gonna tell you to pick it up out there, you took your good old time,” Buster says with a smirk.

“Better than hearing the earth shake when your thunder thighs take a trip ‘round the bases,” Bum says, ducking as Hunter tries to pinch his cheeks as he passes by.

Just as Buster is about to come up with a swift retort revolving around his 2-4 day, he sees Tim duck into the clubhouse and quickly follows, ignoring Bum’s knowing smile.

Inside he finds Tim with his head down and his leg bouncing up and down, a telling tic that Buster knows means that something has happened.

“Hey,” Buster says, approaching Tim like he would a skittish colt, gently leaning forward to place a hand on his knee and rub soothing circles over the material covering it.

“Hey,” Tim responds, barely glancing up at him before running his fingers through his hair and sighing.

“What did Groesch say?” Buster presses after waiting for Tim to say something. “X-Rays and MRIs were fine, no break,” Tim mutters, Buster’s hope rising like a wave, “But my hip is fucked,” he continues, and Buster’s world falls down around him.

“What do you mean it’s fucked?” Buster whispers, squatting down in front of Tim and brushing the hair out of his eyes. When Tim had first cut it, he hadn’t realized how much maintenance it would need, but Buster always loved when it fell in front of his face, shielding him from the world in a way Buster never could.

“Groesch called it degenerative something-or-other, I didn’t really get the rest. Basically surgery or bust. I stopped listening after that,” Tim laughs humorlessly and scrubs his hands over his face before looking at Buster for the first time. “Buster, I could be done,” he whispers almost noiselessly before his eyes begin to smart with tears.

Buster instantly lets Tim fold into his body, holding him close as he tries to stop his own tears, murmuring, “I’ve got you, babe,” into Tim’s shoulder.

“I… oh, fuck, sorry,” Bum says, blushing brightly and instantly turning around after seeing his teammates embracing on the floor of the locker-room.

After hearing his voice, Buster looks up, freezing and beginning to disentangle his arms from around Tim before Bum interrupts him.

“No, it’s fine Buster, I kinda guessed, it’s not a big deal… I’ll leave you two alone,” Bum says, hurriedly backpedaling out of the room as Buster sags against Tim in relief.

“Thanks Bum,” he says quietly, collecting Tim into his arms and guiding him up and out of the locker-room, trusting Bum to keep prying eyes away. “Tell Boch we’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells him, waiting just long enough to see Bum’s nod of confirmation before half-carrying Tim out to his truck, pretending not to feel the rapid, panicky rise and fall of Tim’s chest as he tries to mask his sobs.

* * *

July 15, 2013

MLB All-Star Break

_Even though it was his second time going, Buster was still excited to be selected for the All-Star Game. He knew not to mention it too much, especially around Tim, who despite knowing that his numbers didn’t warrant votes was still rightfully disappointed, but his heart swelled with the idea of being considered one of the game’s elite players._

_One of the other things he loved about the All-Star Game was the time off between the game itself and the actual games preceding and following it. Buster woke up with Tim cocooned around him like a warm blanket and he simply laid there for several minutes, reassuring himself that it hadn’t been a dream. Tim had kissed him, he and Kristen weren’t together anymore, and he could have this. He could have Tim._

_“You’re thinking too loudly,” Tim mumbled into Buster’s shoulder, groggily lifting his head and looking at him through eyes squinted against the sunlight peeking through the curtains._

_“_ _Sorry,” Buster muttered, stroking Tim’s hair, “You can go back to sleep if you want, no need to get up early.”_

 _“_ _Nah, I’m up now,” Tim said, stretching out and cracking what seemed like every part of his body before opening his eyes fully and looking at Buster._

_“Are we gonna talk about this or not?”_

_“I was hoping for not…” Buster said, pushing a hand through his hair in resignation._

_“I can work with not,” Tim said, chuckling quietly before rolling on top of Buster and looking down at him with a small smile._

_“Is this where you tell me that we’re both consenting adults so whatever we do is our business and ours alone?” Buster asked, smiling wider at Tim’s responding snigger._

_“Something like that…” Tim replied, letting his words trail off as he lowered himself down to press his lips against Buster’s and used his arms to bracket Buster’s head._

_The morning light was shining through the curtains in Tim’s room, coating everything with an ethereal glow as Buster flipped them over and began opening Tim up as gently as he could, watching Tim gasp and whine as the light dappled over his skin._

_“You’re so beautiful,” Buster whispered, pressing a kiss to Tim’s shoulder as he put more lube on his fingers._

_“Not… uh… as much as you…” Tim gasped, scrabbling for purchase on Buster’s shoulders. And no, Buster couldn’t hear that._

_“Timmy,” Buster said, pulling back for a moment and smiling softly at Tim’s whine of frustration, “two days ago you threw a no-hitter, and I was squatting behind home plate and there were so many times where I almost forgot what pitch I wanted to call because all I could look at was you out there on the mound and how strong and talented and beautiful you were.”_

_“Oh…” Tim whispered, ducking his head into Buster’s chest, “I had no idea…”_

_“Yeah,” Buster said quietly, “so don’t try pulling that self-deprecating shit with me anymore, you’re beautiful and nothing is going to change that.”_

_When Buster pushed into Tim and began thrusting in earnest he kept his eyes open the entire time, watching every little reaction that he had imagined and wondered about for so long; the way the column Tim’s neck arched back, how high he could bring his legs around Buster’s waist, each little noise, every little nuance._

_It was in that moment, looking at Tim spread out underneath him, that Buster fell in love._  

* * *

June 28, 2015

Colorado Rockies at San Francisco Giants

The first thing Tim does when he enters the condo is take a large swig of whiskey, Buster watches the accompanying wince with a sympathetic glance before stretching out on the couch and waiting for Tim to make himself comfortable in his lap. It never takes him long.

Looking at his boyfriend, Buster can already tell that he has reverted back to stony silence, a surefire defense developed after years of shouting matches with his father that he only later on learned he could never win. In the Lincecum household, Buster had been quick to recognize, the ability to distance oneself from reality was crucial to survival. The whiskey, he had learned soon after, was a coping mechanism Tim had established during the years when he had thought that Buster would never reciprocate his feelings.

“Whiskey doesn’t have stupidly beautiful blue eyes and always notices me,” Tim had told him, only half jokingly one night when Buster had asked about his tendency to go to the bottle after a difficult situation.

This time Buster doesn’t need Tim to tell him that seeing the bottle in his hands means that what Groesch said had truly rattled him.

When Tim finally comes over to the couch, he instantly melts into Buster’s arms, and presses his face into his favorite spot in Buster’s neck. Over the years Buster has learned to wait for Tim to speak first.

“I started pitching too young,” is the first thing Tim says, Buster knows this isn’t the whole story but Tim has always had a roundabout way of getting to where he wants to be.

“My dad never gave me a choice, he just threw me out on the mound when I was a fucking kid. Sean and I were never supposed to question him and we were too young and stupid to know that we could. He taught me to throw just after I learned how to walk and taught me a curve when I was eight.”

Buster nods, Tim had told him as much before, but he senses there’s more to it than that, so he presses a kiss to Tim’s head in encouragement before he continues, “Groesch said that something happened with starting out so young, overcompensation or some other bullshit… Since I started pitching when I was so little the bones in my hip grew funny to make up for the motion and now since I’m older I’m putting too much stress on it. Too much wear and tear. That’s why I’ve been leaning on the mound. That fucker screwed me over trying to help…”

Buster expects to feel tears seep through his shirt but instead he can feel Tim literally vibrating in anger under his fingertips.

“He said it’s been going on for years and no one had found it because I thought it was just stiffness from my start but because it’s so screwed up structurally I couldn’t push off of it and it fucked over my velocity and my mechanics… Buster I don’t know what to do,” Tim whispers, lifting his head to look at Buster with shining eyes.

Buster has known Tim long enough to know not to sugar-coat his words, so instead of lying to make them both feel better he strokes his hands over Tim’s cheekbones and leans in for a soft kiss.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says quietly, “We always do.”

The first time they had had sex Buster had been afraid that he was going to break Tim, who had seemed so fragile with his angular ribcage and slim waist, but since then he has learned how truly strong Tim is and how far he can push.

Even after two years, he is still in awe of how beautiful Tim looks spread out beneath him, his cropped hair still fanning out on the pillow and his body arching up into Buster’s touch.

As Buster reaches for the lube Tim grabs his wrist, turning his hand over to slot their fingers together.

“Help me forget, Buster, please,” Tim tells him in a rare moment of hushed vulnerability, letting go and spreading his legs wide enough for Buster to settle between them. Buster presses a quick kiss to the velvety skin of Tim’s inner thigh and nods, trusting that Tim knows everything that goes unsaid between them, _I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m not going to leave you. You will never be broken to me._

When Buster pushes his first finger in he hears Tim sigh above him and he smiles, knowing that this is home for his boyfriend, not Seattle with his overbearing father, but here, with Buster.

Tim has always been vocal during sex, but for once he is quiet, letting Buster open him up with breathy gasps and soft reassurances until Buster can slick himself up and push in, both of them exhaling together as Tim pulls Buster even closer for a sloppy kiss that is more teeth than tongue.

“I love you,” Tim pants into Busters shoulder, letting his lips slide over the sweaty skin, “So… uh… so much…”

Buster pulls back just long enough to look Tim in the eyes, “I love you too, Timmy,” he says quietly, reaching down for one more kiss before he begins thrusting in earnest. For the first time he and Buster come at the same time, Buster shuddering with the aftershocks as Tim streaks his stomach with his own come.

Later they curl up together, Buster with one arm draped over Tim’s waist, his fingers rubbing lazy circles over his hip, wishing that he could heal it through sheer strength of will and want.

_* * *_

_December 14, 2014_

_MLB Offseason_

_“So Buster, you’re close to the skipper, right?” Buster raised his head and paused with the fork halfway to his mouth, carefully putting it down before he started to answer Chris’ question._

_Tim’s dad was seated at the head of the small wooden dining table in the Lincecum family kitchen, his slim form, so similar to his son’s, somehow filling up more space than Buster could quantify. Buster had heard so much about Chris Lincecum, so when Tim had haltingly asked him if he wanted to come over for a few days in Seattle before Christmas to meet him he had agreed, more out of curiosity than anything else._

_Tim and Chris looked eternally uncomfortable around each other from what Buster had seen, always leaving space between them and never interacting in the ways that Buster had taken for granted with his father. Even at the table there was a marked distance between their chairs, with Tim practically on top of Buster to stay farther away from Chris._

_Chris was smoking, angling the cigarette only slightly away from their food and Buster’s nose tingled with the acrid smell of the smoke. To his right was a clay ashtray, evidently a school art project of Tim’s from many years ago. Buster could see where Tim had scratched his chicken-scratch autograph into the clay, practicing for his inevitable fame even back in those days._

_Buster looked up at Chris, pausing before diplomatically answering, “I guess so, though no closer than anyone else, really.”_

_He could see a look of disappointment flash across Chris’ face before it faded back into a cool mask, “So you don’t know why Tim wasn’t allowed to pitch more than he was?”_

_Buster’s heart dropped and he could hear Tim’s rapid intake of breath, this was ground that even Buster himself hadn’t gone near._

_“Well sir, I know that towards the end of the season Tim was struggling with some back pain, so that might be part of it, but I don’t really know…”_

_“I was pitching like shit, dad,” Tim interrupted, looking his dad defiantly in the face, “I was pitching like shit and Boch thought I was a liability so he waited for a blowout game to see what kind of stuff I had. Then my back seized up and I couldn’t keep going. It would have been stupid for me to risk going on in the game when it didn’t matter anyway. Don’t bring Buster into this, he had nothing to do with it.”_

_Chris leaned forward, eyes bright, “After everything you’ve done for that team, he had no right to keep you from pitching, Tim,” he began as Buster’s heart sank, “Pitching is a position that can be taught to almost anybody; but throwing properly is an art, and you can’t forget that. With the mechanics I taught you you should never have any kind of injuries or issues…”_

_“Where were you then, huh?” Tim yelled, interrupting his father again, “When my mechanics were going to shit, where were you to fix them? Where did your backseat driving go when I lost control of the car? You were just waiting for everything to fall to pieces so that I would have to come crawling back to you and beg for your help like I was eight years old and learning a curve for the first time!”_

_Chris sat back in his chair, staring at Tim who was flushed and panting as if he had just done warm-up sprints across the field._

_“I was waiting for you to grow up and take responsibility and realize that you couldn’t always be on your own and pretend to be able to take care of yourself. I built your career, Tim, I think it’s time you remembered that,” Chris told him, a small smile on his face._

_Tim stood up, leaning forward to look his father squarely in the face, “Fuck. You,” he bit out, “It’s my career and I’m going to do whatever I think I need to do.” Turning to Buster and reaching for his hand he barely spared a glance back over his shoulder as he led Buster out of the kitchen._

_“I don’t know why I came back, he’s the same goddamn asshole he’s always been,” Tim muttered, throwing his clothes back into the small suitcase he had brought._

_“What…?” he started as Buster kissed him, effectively silencing his protests._

_“He doesn’t own you, Timmy. No one does,” Buster told him quietly, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead before helping him pack, pretending not to see Tim’s angry scowl melt into a blushing, blissful smile._  

* * *

June 29, 2015

San Francisco Giants Off-Day

When Buster wakes up, Tim is already stirring beside him, a rarity in and of itself. Tim rolls over to face him and Buster watches his eyes gradually clear up, from a murky sleep-addled brown to the bright green that he knows and loves.

“Is the apocalypse coming?” Buster teases, tangling their fingers together as Tim grumbles something about sunlight and annoying catchers.

“No,” Tim mutters, pushing the sheets off of them, “My hip just fucking hurts, that’s all.”

Buster’s eyes widen as he takes in Tim’s grimace of pain in getting out of the bed, and how he limps over to their medicine cabinet before throwing back Tylenol. _How could I have missed this?_ Buster thinks, _How could I have missed him being in so much pain?_

“Any plans today?” Buster asks casually, trying to lighten the mood.

“Nope, Groesch said a few days won’t make a difference. He’s gonna call a surgeon who he knows and they’ll let me know what I need to do,”

“So you’re all mine today?” Buster asks, grinning as Tim’s eyes light up.

“Guess so,” Tim says, placing his head just below Buster’s sternum and gazing up at him with a small smile, “Better get used to it babe, I’ll be homebound for a while.”

And no, Buster can’t hear that, not when they finally have a day all to themselves. Pressing a quick kiss to Tim’s lips he pulls them both up and out of bed.

“Well then I guess we’d better take advantage of that, huh?”

When they had first gotten together Tim had refused to let Buster drive them anywhere. Buster had always thought that it was out of embarrassment; he hadn’t held out for a signing bonus and had never seen the need to upgrade from his ratty old truck.

“It has personality,” he had told Tim one day, watching his boyfriend roll his eyes as he unlocked his Mercedes.

But over time he had realized that it was simply Tim feeling uncomfortable in a situation he wasn’t used to. There was no malice involved, Tim just didn’t know how to enter Buster’s world, and the truck to him was a symbol of twanging music and grits on the weekend and everybody in the town knowing each other’s name and everything that he had yet to understand about where Buster came from.

Now it takes very little protest for them to go in the truck and Buster turns on his travel playlist, Brantley Gilbert’s voice crooning out of the speakers. Every so often he looks over and sees Tim genuinely interested in the music as if he’s observing a foreign species, detached but intrigued nonetheless. It makes Buster smile.

There are very few things that make Tim truly forget everything else that’s going on around him, and while Buster pretends not to know about the weed beyond the residual smells on their porch after a particularly difficult night, this is something he can do for Tim.

They pull up to the bay at an all but deserted entrance point, the only family that is still there is in the process of packing up and herding the children into their SUV. There is a small shack that Tim immediately gravitates towards, depositing a quarter and picking out a surfboard, laughing as he shows Buster the Giants logo emblazoned in the middle of it. Buster grabs a Niners one just for laughs and they begin to strip down before getting in the water.

Buster has to remind himself that he can look all he wants as Tim shucks off his shirt, the lean muscle and pale skin so familiar and yet so distinct. Tim has somehow managed to avoid the baseball player tan, but he always laughs at how Buster’s forearms are so much darker than the rest of him before stroking his long fingers around the line where the pigment changes.

He lets Tim drag him towards the water, smiling at how much his boyfriend’s eyes light up. When Buster had first come to San Francisco he hadn’t known that that much water could exist in one place at one time. It had seemed so limitless and made him feel so small, but he has long since become used to the endless miles of blue, almost preferring it to the parched grass and pounding sun of Leesburg.

When he looks up he sees that Tim has already jumped in and is trying to steady himself on the board. Tim is a surprisingly good surfer, his natural flexibility and balance aiding his ability to stay upright. Buster always feels large and clunky on the board; he only tries it to make Tim laugh.

After several minutes of trying and failing to stay upright, Buster resigns himself to lying on his stomach on the board and paddling with his arms, just enough to stay in one place and watch Tim. Tim is a natural at this in a way Buster has never been.

For once there is no fog sweeping across the water, and so the sunlight shines down on them both, illuminating Tim’s form from above and creating a halo of yellow light around him. Tim is standing on his surfboard, legs bent, arms out and a beautiful smile on his face, one that Buster hasn’t seen since before the X-Rays. After a moment of suspended time, a huge wave crashes over him from behind, sending him tumbling into the water before surfacing with a laugh.

Buster quickly paddles over to him, helping him back onto his board, but Tim chooses to just sit on his, calves and feet in the water, eyes looking at Buster.

“Thank you,” Tim says quietly, pushing his wet hair out of his face, “I needed this.”

“I know,” Buster says with a small smile, “Plus it’s not like I don’t get anything out of it.”

Tim looks confused for a moment before it dawns on him that for once they could stare all they wanted without worrying. His face splits into a grin and he reaches for Buster, Buster going willingly so that Tim can wrap his fingers around Buster’s sun-kissed shoulders.

“Thank you,” Tim says again, leaning forward for a deep kiss, digging his fingers into the muscle of Buster’s shoulders and making him moan softly.

“We should probably head back…” Buster says reluctantly a few moments later, pulling a whining Tim with him to the shore and returning their boards to the little shack. He had only thought to bring one towel, so he wraps it around them both, relishing the feeling of Tim’s lean, slippery form pressed against his larger one.

The drive home is quiet and Buster can see Tim sinking into thought in the passenger’s seat, his head pressed lightly against the window, watching the city go past. For once Buster can’t read his face to know what he’s thinking.

As soon as they arrive back at the condo, Tim heads immediately to the couch, fingers flying as he sets up FIFA, slouching forward and waiting for Buster to join him. Buster takes his time, walking into the kitchen and putting together a sandwich for each of them, ham and cheese for him, turkey and cheese with the crust cut off for Tim. Tim told him once that he had had to make a lot of his own meals growing up, his father never really taking care of him and his mother out of the picture from an early age, so Buster has gotten to notice the little residual pieces of the childhood Tim never got to have: the crusts, wanting someone to tell him good night before going to bed, needing the reassurance of knowing that Buster isn’t going to leave him. It makes Buster’s heart ache to think of Tim, his beautiful, talented Tim, being so cripplingly insecure.

“You want Chelsea?” Tim calls out from the living room, leaning his head back over the couch to look at Buster.

“Yeah, sure,” Buster says, bringing the sandwiches out to them.

“Cool, I’m taking Arsenal,” Tim says with a smirk, “This should be good.”

“You’re nothing if not consistent,” Buster says, rolling his eyes and grabbing the controller.

Tim is ridiculously competitive, something Buster found out the on the day he was called up when he watched the pitchers run sprints, Tim taking on Zito and Cain and ending up bent over with sweat dripping down his face, on the verge of passing out, but victorious and sporting a shit-eating grin like no other. Buster didn’t like admitting it to himself but he had had a hard time keeping his eyes off of Tim that day, his face flushed, his skin shining and a beautiful, victorious smile on his face. He may or may not have had to discreetly adjust himself in the locker room bathroom in between drills.

While Buster doesn’t have the obsessive love for FIFA that Tim has, “I’ve been playing FIFA since I was born, in my mind, and physically since I was six,” Tim had told him the first time they played each other, he does appreciate the chance to press close to Tim, feel his warmth and stick it to him in the game.

It takes only a few minutes for Tim to begin yelling at the screen, pounding his fingers into the buttons and leaning forward as if willing his pixelated figures to elude Busters’.

“You know they can’t hear you, right?” Buster asks teasingly, gasping in mock shock when he gets one of Tim’s elbows in his ribs.

Tim scores the first goal, jumping to his feet and raising his arms in what Buster sees as an excessive celebration, but Buster returns the favor not long after, turning his head towards Tim and shooting him a lazy smile as his boyfriend grumbles.

Tim ends up winning, as he often does, and directs his victory shimmy towards Buster, his eyes sparkling and no trace of worry in the lines around his mouth. Buster wishes he could frame this moment, with Tim looking years younger and radiating happiness. Something must show on his face because Tim’s smile begins to fade as he looks questioningly at Buster, but Buster waves away his concerns and the contented grin returns to his boyfriend’s face.

“Come here, you,” Buster tells him, holding his arms out for Tim and letting him settle in his lap.

“I never asked what I get for winning,” Tim says, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestion of flirtation and making Buster laugh.

“Show don’t tell,” Buster says, pushing Tim off of him and sliding down to the floor, looking up into Tim’s green eyes.

He sees Tim take a shuddering breath as he reaches for his fly, pulling down the zipper and then letting Tim help him take the jeans all the way off. Tim looks so open like this, his eyes wide and breath panting in anticipation, it makes Buster feel so lucky that he gets to see him vulnerable in a way that no one else does.

Buster is somewhat out of practice, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind as Buster puts his mouth around his dick, his breath quickening and his hands fisting in the material of the couch. Buster swirls his tongue around the head of Tim’s dick, making sure to keep steady eye contact the whole time.

It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but after only a few minutes, Tim is pulling at his hair and gasping, a sign that Buster has learned over the years means he’s getting ready to let go.

“Buster… oh God… please…” Tim pants, dragging his fingers through Buster’s hair. Buster hollows his cheeks one more time and then pulls off, feeling Tim come hard all over his chest with a moan.

Tim slumps back against the couch, running his fingers through his hair, face flushed and cheeks a light shade of pink.

“Damn… We should play video games more often,” Tim says with a laugh, helping Buster strip off his shirt and rubbing his hands over Buster’s chest, his calluses catching on the delicate skin.

“Love you,” Buster says simply, catching Tim’s lips in a kiss before pulling him up onto his feet and directing him towards the bedroom. He knows that he has to get up in a few hours to join the rest of the guys on the plane to Miami, but for right now he just wants to stay with Tim. He almost manages to fool himself into thinking that everything is normal.

The light has long since faded into darkness and as Buster lies down on the bed he can only see the vague outline of Tim’s form, his pale skin luminescent in the dim room, his lean muscles rippling as he gets into his flannel pajama pants.

“How’re you feeling?” Buster asks tentatively as Tim crawls into bed.

“Okay,” Tim says quietly, curling into Buster, “Not great. I’m gonna see one of the trainers tomorrow when you guys are playing in Miami. He might want to look at scheduling surgery, he told me he found a guy who really knows what he’s doing.”

Buster sighs, pressing a kiss to Tim’s head, “It’s really happening then?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper, desperately hoping for Tim to refute him.

“Guess so,” Tim says softly, and Buster feels him reach angrily up to wipe away a small tear that had started streaking down his face.

“What do you need from me?” Buster asks, pulling back to look Tim in the eyes, “Because whatever you need, Timmy, I’ll be there, I’ll hold your hand, I’ll get your crutches, anything. Everything.”

Tim smiles sadly, “I’ll let you know when I know,” he says, spreading his fingers over Buster’s chest just above his heart. “I promise I’ll let you know.”  

* * *

Over the years Buster has learned to embrace cross-country flights, even though this time he truly feels like he’s leaving his heart back in San Francisco. He sits with Bum, grabbing an earbud and letting Bum turn on his travel playlist for them to listen to.

Tim sends him texts throughout the flight. He’s always been a night owl, but Buster thinks there’s some part of his boyfriend that is trying to pretend that he is on the flight with them, sitting in the back with Hunter and BCraw like usual and texting Buster constant updates on what’s going on.

_Cy just tried 2 eat my dinner after I just fed him. I think my dog eats even more than u do. Miss u. <3_

Buster smiles, ducking his head to answer and catching Bum’s eyes. Bum shoots him a smirk, mouthing “Tim?” and smiling wider at Buster’s blushing nod.

_Well at least someone is keeping you honest. Keep me posted. Miss you too. <3_

Buster settles into the seat, leaning it back, ignoring the protests from Panik who is sitting behind him and closing his eyes, slowly falling asleep dreaming of bright green eyes and crooked smiles.

* * *

June 30, 2015

San Francisco Giants at Miami Marlins

Just as Buster is putting his bag in his assigned locker in the visiting locker room at Marlins Park, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Glancing at it he sees Tim’s name light up the screen and he quickly sits down in one of the rolling chairs strewn around the room.

_Just met w/ the trainers + doctor. Surgery is a go. Looking at a few days/weeks before it happens. Really fucking scared…_

Buster’s heart breaks, thinking about Tim waking up alone and going to meet with the trainers who had handed over the worst possible verdict either of them could have imagined. His fingers are flying over the screen before he even knows it.

_Timmy, babe, I’m so so sorry. We’ll deal with this, I promise. If anyone can get through this, it’s you. You’re so strong and I have so much faith in you. I love you, never forget that. I’ll see you soon._

A minute later he gets a response: _Not soon enough_.

Buster has never resented baseball as much as he does in that moment, resigning himself to six days away from the one person he needs to be with. He knows that Tim knows that there is nothing that either of them can do, but it doesn’t stop the frustration on both sides in their inability to be together and support each other when they need it most.

Perhaps it is baseball’s way of spiting him, that despite a 2-4 day with two runs and an RBI they can’t get the win, Vogey struggling just enough to make the offense’s job that much harder; an unremarkable game in a series of unremarkable, forgettable games. Buster watches it all from first like a movie unfolding, powerless to stop the stolen base or the calls from behind the plate. He’s just this side of distracted, and is almost despondent in the dugout, subtly distancing himself from the rest of the team and only making small talk with Bum and Duffy in between innings.

When the game is finally over, Buster wastes no time to get out of the park, getting into his truck and immediately calling Tim while sitting in the parking lot. Tim picks up on the second ring, clearly having watched the game on TV.

“Nice game,” Tim says.

“Thanks,” Buster says quietly, “So what happened?”

“Doc just confirmed what Groesch had said. It’s a degenerative thing in my hip and surgery is the only option if I want to keep pitching… He said that he thinks I should be able to get my velocity back, but recovery could be up to six months if we’re lucky.”

“Well at least there’s hope, babe, that’s all we can ask for,” Buster says.

“Yeah, it’s fucking great,” Tim says sarcastically, “I’ll be sitting on my ass for six months during my free agent season watching the games go by. No one’s gonna be interested in me, not even the Giants. They’ve already gambled too much on me…”

“Don’t you dare talk like that,” Buster bites out, interrupting Tim’s frustrated rambling, “You are so much more than that. You’re going to have the surgery, you’re going to heal, and you’re going to be back. We can’t think any other way, or we’ll drive ourselves crazy.”

Tim sighs on the other end and Buster wants nothing more than to be able to wrap his arm around Tim’s shoulders and hold him close.

“I hate this,” he tells Tim, “I hate not being able to be there for you.”

“I know babe,” Tim says tiredly, “Just bring home some wins and I’ll see you soon. We can talk more later.”

“Yeah, I love you,” Buster tells him, unable to stop himself.

“Love you too,” Tim says, and Buster can hear the smile in his voice, “See you soon.”

_* * *_

_September 11, 2009_

_Los Angeles Dodgers at San Francisco Giants_

_Buster was vibrating with energy as he stepped onto the field, hovering between relief and disbelief. The early afternoon light was shining off of the glove and coke bottle in left field and Buster thought that he could easily get used to a sight like that. The field stretched before him under his feet, smelling of limitless possibilities._

_The pitchers were working out in the outfield, doing different stretches across the grass, laughing and joking, their voices carrying through the park. The infielders hadn’t yet started their workout, so Buster walked towards the pitchers, unsure and feeling more and more like the rookie call-up. Maybe he could glean some wisdom from some of the more established starters. It wasn’t as though he was going to catch for some time, but it never hurt to be prepared._

_As he approached them he saw Lincecum and Zito at the back of the group, miming the stretches but chatting more than actually stretching. Buster saw Lincecum snicker at something Zito had said, and then his amusement grew into full-blown laughter as Zito continued his story, Lincecum throwing his head back with his arms crossed over his chest. Buster swallowed as he watched the long line of Lincecum’s neck and the bulging lean muscles of his arms. He had promised himself to stop looking, especially after all that had happened at FSU, but it seemed like that promise was already broken._

_“Hey, Buster, right?” Lincecum asked as he got closer, leaning forward to shake his hand._

_“Yeah, Buser Posey, nice to meet you,” Buster said, awkwardly returning the handshake and trying not to meet Lincecum’s eyes._

_“_ _Welcome to the show kid,” Zito said with a kind smile._

_“Thanks,” Buster said, “This place is amazing, worlds better than the minors.”_

_“Yeah, you forget what it’s like to see it for the first time,” Zito said, stopping to listen as Rags told the assembled pitchers to line up for sprints._

_“Fucking hate this,” Zito said with a groan, “My old man legs aren’t built for this shit.” Lincecum swatted him over the head, laughing, “You’re only thirty-one, idiot, you’ve got some life left,”_

_Zito grimaced, “Maybe not after sprints, I won’t,” he said, miming throwing up as he and Lincecum lined up along the third base line._

_“_ _Welcome to Planet Zito,” Lincecum said with a wink as he passed Buster, Buster smiling in return and stepping back to watch._

_The first sprints were pretty mild, the pitchers obviously not going full out, but not long after they began, Buster heard Lincecum say, “C’mon you slowpokes,” to Cain and Zito, and their derisive snorts of disbelief._

_“You think you could take us?” Cain asked, his hands on his hip, looking at Lincecum._

_“Damn right,” Lincecum replied, his posture confident without being cocky, and a smirk lighting up his face. Buster couldn’t help but watch the way his tongue ran over his bottom lip and then mentally berated himself for looking._

_After a brief moment, Zito, and Lincecum lined up by themselves, the rest of the staff letting them settle their dispute._

_When Rags offered the signal the three of them set off, racing to the midway point in center field and touching the line of orange cones before heading back. Lincecum’s long legs ate up the ground, and though Buster could tell he didn’t run much, he still easily lapped Cain and Zito, his lean body pushing further and further ahead until Buster could see that he was just showing off._

_After Lincecum crossed the line first he immediately slumped forward, his long hair falling in front of his face and his chest heaving. He was excused from the rest of the sprints and slowly walked over to where Buster was standing._

_“Impressive,” Buster said, reaching out to push Lincecum’s hair back before he even realized he was doing it._

_Lincecum’s smile grew impossibly wider, “Thanks,” he said quietly, catching Buster’s hand before it fell and curling their fingers together for half an instant._

_Buster took a sharp breath, raising his head up to look at Lincecum, whose gaze had softened slightly. He licked his bottom lip, his eyes trained on Buster’s as he pushed his hair back, the muscles in his arm flexing._

_“Timmy! You comin’?” Rags called out, getting ready to round the pitchers up for another drill._

_“Yeah Rags, be there in a second!” Lincecum yelled back, starting to back away before turning again to glance at Buster, “Catcha later, Rook,” he said with a small smile. He was sweat-soaked and exhausted, and Buster had never seen anything more beautiful in his life._  

* * *

July 6, 2015

New York Mets at San Francisco Giants

Tim is waiting for Buster when the team plane lands in San Francisco at four in the morning after their horrific East Coast road trip. It takes every amount of strength Buster has left to wait to collapse in his arms until they get into the nearly empty parking lot, but Tim warm and solid and there around him nearly makes up for the six days they spent apart from each other.

“Missed you so much,” Buster mumbles into Tim’s shirt, feeling Tim smile into his shoulder.

“Missed you too, babe, let’s go home and get you in bed.”

“That sounds amazing…” Buster says dreamily, “I could kill whoever decided to make that game an ESPN game on a Sunday when we have a game across the country the next day. I could kill them.”

“I know, babe, I know,” Tim says absentmindedly, shepherding Buster into the Mercedes.

The drive to Tim’s condo is spent in silence, Buster hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness and Tim quietly humming to one song or another, glancing over every so often and smiling softly at Buster’s head nodding forward.

They dance around each other getting ready for bed, arms over arms and bodies weaving back and forth through the bathroom and bedroom. After the light is turned out, Tim curls into Buster’s body, Buster sliding his hand into Tim’s silky hair and sighing contentedly.

“It’s so good to be back home,” Buster says before he drifts off. The last thing he hears before fading into sleep is Tim’s soft chuckle of amusement.

* * *

“So was there anything you didn’t get to tell me about the surgery stuff?” Buster asks the next day over breakfast. He stays with his spoon poised above his Honey Nut Cheerios and watches Tim pour out a bowl of Lucky Charms, wishing he could be surprised by his boyfriend’s food choices.

“Um… Kinda. Groesch and I met with the guy who’s going to be doing the procedure. His name is Marc Philippon, and it seemed as much as I can tell like he knew what he was talking about. Like I said before it should be about five or six months of recovery…” Tim trails off and ducks his head down, Buster standing up to come over and rub a hand between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, I know it’s a lot to process, but believe me I know what this is like. When my ankle was busted I was so overwhelmed, but you just have to take it one day at a time. That’s all you can do.”

“Thanks for the cliché, asshole,” Tim says with a quick grin, Buster simply delighting in seeing him smile, even at his own expense.

“Well, they’re harped on for a reason, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tim says, coming over to sit down at the table, “Oh and we had to figure out a date for the op because Dr. Philippon only does surgeries on Fridays for some reason. It’s gonna be next Friday…”

Buster’s chest seizes as he thinks of Tim counting down the days without him, and he resolves in that moment to be there for Tim as much as he can be.

He reaches over the table to grab Tim’s hand, “It’ll be okay, Timmy. I promise. I’ll be there.”

Tim’s smile fades and he avoids Buster’s eyes, “Buster, you have a game. I can’t make you miss that.”

“Where’s it going to be done?” Buster asks, determination steeling his voice.

“Arizona. At five. But before you say anything, I know that’s where the team will be playing, I know. But I refuse to be a distraction and I refuse to take you away from the game. I would never be able to forgive myself if I did. I can’t be that selfish, even if I want to be.”

“Timmy.” Buster says, gently cupping his chin and meeting his eyes, “I don’t care if I have to run from Chase Field to the hospital, I’m going to be there when you wake up. I promise you. I won’t let you go through this alone.”

Tim’s resulting smile could have blinded the city.

* * *

There is a certain monotony to the baseball season, one that Buster has come to understand and embrace over the years. Breakfast, pack, stretch, BP, lunch, watch tape, do scouting reports, game, stretch, bed. Then all over again the next day and the next for month after month. If he hadn’t learned to embrace it, he thinks, he wouldn’t be able to survive it. Only knowing the established way of things keeps the bitterness at bay.

The days roll one into the next, saying goodbye to Tim in the morning, playing the game, grinding out a win or trying to quickly forget a loss, and then returning to Tim’s arms late at night to crash into bed together. Rinse, repeat.

He forces himself not to look at the calendar and he knows that Tim is doing the same in his own way. Tim for his part will occasionally show up at the clubhouse to beat around the bush with the guys or chat with the trainers, maybe watch the game from the dugout, but he never stays for very long. Buster knows from simply watching him that it’s because it’s too painful. He knows that Tim hasn’t yet wrapped his mind around all that he’s going to lose and he knows that he’s slowly and almost inadvertently distancing himself because he hopes to make it less painful when all he can be is a spectator.

Buster doesn’t have the heart to tell him that no matter what he does it will still feel like losing everything.

The All-Star Game brings its own set of routines, not quite as established or as monotonous, but there nonetheless. Buster finds a way to request he and Bum sharing a Chevy for the red carpet, just so it would look more occupied. He enjoys the time with Bum and Ali and manages somehow to avoid all of the questions about the wife or girlfriend that every other player seems to have.

“You looked good,” Tim tells him over the phone, “Did you see Kershaw? He dressed his daughter up like Little Bo Peep, at least you had some style,”

“Thanks for that,” Buster says with a laugh, “Yeah I did see, it totally caught me off guard. Everyone kept asking me where my girlfriend was and how she was doing,”

There is silence on the other end, and Buster knows that Tim is trying to stay within himself.

“I wanted to tell them that my boyfriend was getting ready for surgery and couldn’t make it. I really did, Tim. I really did.”

Silence. Then, “Really?” Tim asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “You would want to be publically associated with the train wreck that is my life?”

Buster chuckles, “Babe I’ve been associated with you for two years now, it doesn’t make any difference to me whether that association is public or private. Maybe not right now, obviously, but… Maybe at some point?” Buster holds his breath waiting for Tim’s response.

“Yeah…” Tim says finally, “I’d like that.”

* * *

July 17, 2015

San Francisco Giants at Arizona Diamondbacks

As Buster starts to get ready to go off to the game from their hotel room, it is as though Tim can’t stop touching him. From the moment they wake up and Tim wraps his arms and legs around Buster until he has to detangle them to get up at the last possible minute to when he starts putting things in his bag and Tim stops him with a hand on his wrist and a gentle kiss.

The day before, Buster had sat next to Tim in Dr. Philippon’s office under the guise of team support as a nurse had gone through all of the paperwork for the procedure.

“I feel like I’m signing my life away,” Tim had said when she left to scan the papers.

“I know,” Buster had sighed, letting Tim lean on his shoulder and wrapping his arms around Tim’s lean frame, “But it’ll all be over soon.”

“I hope so…” Tim had said, closing his eyes and twining their fingers together.

Now he stands in front of the door, looking into Tim’s wide, panicked eyes and wishing with every fiber of his being that he could stay.

“You’re gonna be okay?” he asks.

“Think so,” Tim says after a moment, “All the paperwork is done, I just have to drive over there and check myself in and then they said they’d take it from there. And I can’t eat or drink for the whole day. I’ll be in outpatient.”

“Okay,” Buster says, reaching forward to stroke his fingers over Tim’s cheekbones, “I love you, Timmy. So so much. I know you can do this. I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Tim says with a small smile, “Go out and bring home the W. See you soon.”

Their kiss is short but firm, Tim almost desperate in the way he presses his whole body into Buster.

Buster pulls back reluctantly, “Babe, I really gotta go,”

“I know,” Tim says, stepping back slowly, “I love you too, Buster.”

One last kiss and he’s off, driving towards Chase Field while constantly fighting the gravitational pull that makes him want nothing more than to turn around and comfort Tim.

* * *

By the time BCraw crosses home plate in the top of the twelfth inning, Buster is ready to single handedly fight the entire Diamondbacks lineup just to get out of the stadium. As BCraw makes his way into the dugout, Buster grabs his head and yells a relieved “Thank you” in his ear before BCraw moves on down the line of exhausted Giants.

Every inning was more time away from the hospital, and every out was one out closer to getting there. Just after Casilla shuts down the D-Backs to end the game, Buster is running into the dugout and throwing his things together, barely acknowledging anyone who comes up to him. Though not all of the team knows about he and Tim, they somehow know that he needs to get out and they take on the media so that he can slip out the back of the visiting clubhouse and into his truck. Buster has never been more grateful.

Driving through the streets of Arizona, it seems as though Buster encounters every red light possible. He sits in front of them, powerless, biting at his nails and rubbing at his exhausted eyes before slamming on the accelerator as soon as the light hits green.

The hospital is as sterile as all hospitals are, and Buster has the uncomfortable feeling of remembering the last time he was in one. It could be his imagination but he almost feels his ankle throb in memory.

He finds Tim’s room with relative ease, his heartbeat picking up as he approaches until it’s pounding in his chest, either with nerves or with worry, he couldn’t say.

The room is small, white paint, countless machines beeping, with a curtain that Buster immediately pulls across. There is a cup of what looks like Ginger Ale and some saltine crackers on the table next to the bed and a chair set up to the other side, which Buster quickly collapses into.

Tim looks so small in the bed, wrapped up in one of those horrifically impersonal hospital gowns, his left side significantly bulkier than his right. Buster can see the hint of surgical dressings under the gown, layers upon layers of gauze protecting the newly repaired area. His eyes are closed and his breath is steady, courtesy of the IV pumping him full of sleep and pain medications.

Buster reaches for his other hand, stroking the cold, limp fingers and curling them around his own larger hand to try to warm them up. As he sits there, methodically stroking Tim’s hand, he begins to drift into sleep, his head falling next to Tim’s body. In that moment nothing else matters, not baseball, not the surgery, not the rest of the world. There is only the two of them, their entwined fingers, their love, and the steady _in_ and _out_ of Tim’s breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is [patricebergeronandon](http://patricebergeronandon.tumblr.com) Come say hi :)

**Author's Note:**

> So many notes... I got one quote and a lot of information about Chris Lincecum from [the Classical](http://theclassical.org/articles/the-passion-of-chris-lincecum). I also got one of Buster's quotes from Tim's [FIFA video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fe1EPpgw81k) with Landon Donovan. You might have noticed that the timeline for Tim's surgery was moved up chronologically, the reason for that was just because it fit more with how I wanted the sequence of events to go with the All-Star game and the twelve inning game against the D-Backs. All games mentioned are in fact real.


End file.
